


Tumblr Prompts 2016

by crushing83



Series: Snippets and Prompts [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: After the battle, F/M, Ficlets, Fighting and making up, Floof, M/M, Modern Character in Middle Earth, Multi, Ridiculousness, Tumblr Prompts, Vague, and then it becomes something else, in the tent, longer than ficlets, sex as an interrogation tactic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-21
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:06:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crushing83/pseuds/crushing83
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes I reblog those "Choose a sentence and a character" posts. Sometimes people send me an ask. These ficlets are a result of those times. The whole work will be rated as Explicit, because I know racier activities will pop up from time to time. </p><p>(I'm crushing83 on tumblr, and I will also sometimes consider requests, so send me an ask!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After the battle, after a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bard and Thranduil, after battle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For bereniceofdale, who asked for "Go then, leave! See if I care!" + Barduil

They had just had their first _real_ fight---a shouting match seemingly about pooling available resources between Elves and Men (and Dwarves) to aid in healing and survival, but really about nothing except the way the battle's aftermath had left them too frayed and too vulnerable for political affairs---and the Elvenking whirled away from Bard to hide the tears he had not expected to feel sliding down his cheeks. 

He had not done himself (or his kin) proud during the war for the mountain. He had driven his youngest son, his darling little green leaf, away; he had made it impossible for his ward to return to the forest with him. He had seen doubt in the eyes of his subjects. He had seen too much death in his people and in the Men that had gone from a disaster of a leader to the insecurity of homelessness. He had meant to protect them, as the precious remaining magic in the world needed life of all kinds to flourish, but he'd failed so many of them. 

And then he had failed the one whose ancestor he had promised that his line would remain safe, the one who had become his acquaintance and then his friend (and then something intimate and undefined in its fledgling state) as he ferried barrels back and forth between their worlds. 

Bard, the leader (perhaps by default, but he would grow into the role) of the Men of Dale but so much more than that, was still in his tent. Thranduil _hated_ that he would see his tears. He would see Thranduil's weakness, have his own doubt, and Thranduil did not want Bard to see him struggling to cope with the weight of his crown and his grief. 

"Go then, leave!" he barked, refusing to turn back to Bard. "See if I care!" 

The only sound of acknowledgement he received was a soft huffed breath. When he heard footsteps, he expected them to be headed in the direction of the tent flap, of outside and away, but they were coming closer. Thranduil took a step away in a fruitless attempt to keep distance between them; Bard's hand came to rest on his back between his shoulders. If the contact had been sought by anyone else he would have shrugged (or slapped) the hand away, but Bard was one of the few unafraid (but respectful) of him and his position and he'd welcomed touch and closeness between them in many other situations. 

"Lord Thranduil," Bard murmured, "you will have difficulty ejecting me from this tent because I care, and I know you care as well." 

Thranduil closed his eyes. He turned his head away, knowing Bard would stand at his side with one more step and not wanting him to see his face wet with shed sadness, and nodded. 

"Were you injured?" Bard asked. 

"No." 

"Good," Bard whispered. 

Bard moved further than Thranduil assumed he would. When hands wiped at his cheeks, drying them inefficiently but tenderly, he sighed and leaned into the touch. It was a better apology for heated words than more words could ever be and he leaned down and pressed his forehead to Bard's in the hopes that his actions would contribute to the cause.


	2. A Present (for the King)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone drops into Thranduil's life. He tries to get to the bottom of her existence, but after some time passes, it doesn't matter anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [little-red-83](http://little-red-83.tumblr.com/), who asked for _"Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"_ \+ _"You heard me. Take it off."_ \+ Thranduil/reader.
> 
> This got away from me. Sorry it's so long?

The Elvenking had been called away at an opportune moment. You say that because his interrogation tactics were becoming harder to resist, and you aren't sure what he would do with the knowledge that you aren't from _his_ world, but you do sense that he will not believe you. Lying to a king---especially to one who seems so mercurial in his moods---probably won't end well for you. 

One of the guards, a willowy female with long red hair and sharp grey eyes, drags you away at the king's parting command. After a trip to the kitchens, where a substantial meal was provided for you, and a detour to what seemed like a bathhouse, to scrub away the stresses of the day, you are deposited into your room. She gives instructions to the soldiers placed at your door, in their language, before leaving you alone. 

Stifling a yawn as you move, you pad across the room. Fear and confusion have given way to exhaustion; you're looking forward to a night of rest, to an escape from your new reality. Three days ago, you'd woken up in a dark forest with no idea of how you arrived there, and you are no closer to figuring out how to go home. Your first night was spent cowering in the shadow of a large tree. Your second was spent trying to escape the stony palace. You want to rest and recover some mental accuity before the king returns his focus to your presence in his lands. 

It would be easier if he isn't so perceptive---or so handsome. His first attempt at extracting information from you had been terrifying, full of threats and glints of steel blades, but early on in your interactions he seemed to sense that a softer approach would be more effective; since that realisation, his tactics were gentler and warmer and full of smiles and soft gestures. He showed you his home, the places where the views of the world were the most magnificent; his hand frequently found the small of your back, guiding you around, and he answered your questions and complimented you and slowly circled around your existence with his own seemingly safe questions. His silver eyes took on a warmer tone than the cold one you'd first witnessed; he seemed touchable and open and so unlike the curt king you'd first encountered when dragged into his throne room. It was a seduction of sorts and you know it would have unravelled you if you'd been in his presence any longer. 

You sit on the bed and yawn again. Then, without removing your robe, you pull the blankets up over your body and snuggle into the mound of pillows against the headboard. 

And then, the mound of pillows moves. 

You jump back and off of the bed, barely keeping a yelp from escaping. Squinting into the darkness, you can make out the shape of a person---most likely an elf---and it isn't until the person speaks that you realise who it is. 

"I was expecting a warmer reaction, to be honest," the Elvenking said. You could hear the smirk in his voice even though you couldn't see it. 

After you open the shutters on the lantern on a side table, you (amazingly) ignore the way the firelight warms his pale skin and glitters off of his golden circlet and you ask, "Is there a reason you're naked in my bed?"

"'You're?'" 

"It's a contraction," you explain, not caring that you're giving up _this_ piece of information of your world and life. It's not like it explains where you're from or what you were doing in his forest. "A combination of 'you' and 'are.'" 

"Dreadful. I suppose it is a common linguistic device among your people?" He sighs and pats the bed. "Come, join me. We can learn of each other tonight." 

Attraction mingles with anger and before you know it, you're shouting at him. You're ranting about how unbelievable he is, how transparent, and if he thinks you'll tell him everything he wants to know _and_ spread your legs for him, he should reconsider his plan. 

The Elvenking chuckles. He pulls back the blankets and rises in one fluid movement. Unabashed by his nudity, he saunters towards you. You want to be daring but decide that it feels a little too much like a spider toying with a fly trapped in its web, and in the end you cover your eyes with your hands. 

"Is my body that distasteful?" he asks. 

"You know it's not," you mumble. 

"I would not have undressed had I not wanted you to see me," he says. "Judging by your reactions to my earlier attentions---"

"Your Majesty, please." 

By looking down, you could see his feet in front of yours. Their length made yours feel stubbier than they really were. You curl your toes; he seems to reply by tapping his against the cool stone of the floor. 

"Majesty. This is a form of address acceptable for royalty to your people?" 

"Yes, sir," you reply. 

He hums quietly, as if considering your response. "Acceptable," he says after a moment. 

"What a relief," you mutter. 

The king snorts. "How else do you address your rulers, assuming you might ever be in the company of one?"

"I wouldn't know," you tell him. 

"Will you look at me?"

You shake your head. "No." 

"Why not?" 

"Because this feels dangerous." 

The king chuckles. "For you or for me?" he asks. 

"Definitely for me." 

One of his pale hands settled on your shoulder before toying with the collar of the robe provided for you after your bath. "It suits you," he comments. After a pause for a breath, he continues speaking, "I assure you, you are quite safe in my care. I will not push, nor will I punish. I am quite curious, though, about where you come from and how you came to be in my forest when none but one mortal man is permitted to venture near my borders." 

"Why?" you ask. 

"Ah ah," he replies, "I do not yield to spies so easily." 

"And you'll find that I do not yield to interrogators so easily. Even if he's attractive," you shoot back. 

The king laughs. "You flatter me," he says as he reaches up to brush his fingers through your hair. "I find you confusing," he adds. "No one else has ever treated my nudity in such a way." 

"Do many get to see you... like this?"

"No," he answers. "But, those who do... they do not turn down what I am offering." 

You decide to look up at him. You want to see his face, to see if it matches the strange tone in his voice and if it will provide you for clues as to what that tone means. Unfortunately, his face is a nearly-blank mask with only a hint of amusement peeking out at you; he catches your hand before you can tuck it away and traces the palm of your hand with his index finger. 

"Stop," you whisper. 

He surprisingly obeys, pulling away from you. 

"Not like this," you whisper. "Not as an act, a ruse to get a scrap of information out of me." 

The king's smile this time is less of a smirk and more real, more genuine. You wonder if you've passed some sort of test, but doubt that because he'd seemed committed to bedding you to glean information about your world. You smile back at him, the expression infectious, and you're rewarded with a gentle touch to your cheek. 

"Sleep well," he murmurs. "I will see you for the morning meal." 

"Tomorrow? Your Majesty---"

"We will do _this_ ," he says, gesturing towards the bed, "your way. Tomorrow, we will meet and talk and I will try to find out what it is you are hiding. And, as long as you stay, we will see how our friendship progresses. Fair?" 

You nod. "Fair. Thank you, sir." 

With a smile, the Elvenking moves away from you. He dons his own robe---an elegant garment of rich burgundy fabric and trimmed with luscious fur---and you briefly regret his full beauty being hidden away again before feeling relieved that the interrogations are over for the night. 

"Sleep well," he murmurs. "A guard will remain outside the door to ensure your safety." 

He leaves the room and you breathe a sigh---of relief or disappointment, you're not sure---before dimming the lantern and returning to bed. 

And as you find yourself tucking into the same side the Elvenking had occupied, you blush but decide there's no harm in the indulgence as he won't ever know.

&&&

A year later, you find that you're no closer to finding a way home to your old (modern) life. You miss your family, you miss your friends, and you even miss your job, but the heartache is growing fainter as new routines and new people fill your life and heart.

Thranduil---you're allowed to call him by name, now, if you're alone, and you do so all the time when thinking about him---had backed off in his quest to discover your secrets. When he took you to the spot his guards found you, when he saw you look around for some sort of portal (because, even though the idea was _insane_ , it had to be the only thing that could explain how you ended up in such a strange world) or doorway to your old life, when he watched you cry out in frustration and grief, he bundled you up in his cloak and invited you to call his lands your new home. In the following days, the intensity of his interrogations faded and a new relationship with the king and his kingdom developed. 

Part of you misses the flirtacious, dangerous Elvenking, but you prefer the side of the king you're allowed to glimpse now. He seems more honest, more at ease, and less like he's acting and playing a role. 

He's still curious, but with you no longer living as a guest in his wing of the fortress, your time together is infrequent and conversation is often about other things, other events, instead of your past. 

Other Elves might treat you strangely---because why would a mortal live in their halls, welcomed by their king?---but Thranduil never makes you feel as if you can't belong there. It is strange, but you're glad for his behaviour; you've grown fond of the forest, even if there's something dark creeping into it, and you'd hate to be turned away from the elvish realm. 

You know some of their language, enough to converse (sort of) with guards and other staff and enough to do your job rearranging the royal library. You spend your days trying to read Sindarin when you aren't organising the scrolls and volumes by subject matter; you wish you had a better grasp of the language but Thranduil assured you that he had confidence you could do the work. You know it's better you spend your time in a library instead of in a garden or kitchen, and you suspect that was why Thranduil insisted you learn his language. 

"You are thinking too hard." 

You turn from the main window in the library and smile. Thranduil stands in the doorway, smiling back at you. His travelling cloak and armour has been replaced with his more comfortable robes, and his circlet has been replaced with his usual crown of branches. 

"Your Majesty," you murmur, choosing the honorific instead of his name. "How was the hunt?"

"The darkness is coming closer," he says as he comes into the room. He strides across to you and only stops when he is so close that he is able to reach out and brush your chin with his fingers. "We chased the intruders from our lands, and no one in my party sustained serious injury." 

Your breath catches on the mention of _our lands_ , but you don't comment on his choice of words. Instead, you focus on the last phrase and share your relief that no one is hurt. He smiles again before turning to look out of the window, to see the sight you've been admiring. 

"I will have difficulty leaving this place," he whispers, "when my kin depart from these lands." He sighs. "It is alive and wild. And even with the returning darkness, its beauty speaks to my heart." 

"You will not be leaving for quite some time, though," you say. 

Thranduil shrugs. "Perhaps never." 

"You would stay? Alone?" You reach out and take his hand in yours. "Thranduil, I would not wish that degree of isolation on you---"

"I am often alone," he murmurs. "Aside from that, the forest is my home and much of my heart. I do not know if I could leave it." 

You don't like the idea of Thranduil alone, but you can understand his love of the forest. Even with enemies attempting to conquer it, it was a beautiful land and full of wonders you'd only begun to explore. 

He squeezes your hand and does not release it. When his fingers tangle together with yours, you allow (welcome) the contact; he smiles a bit and gives the view before him a lingering last look before turning his attention to you. 

"I know you miss your home, but are you content here?" he asks. 

You smile and nod. "I would go as far as to say I'm happy here, Thranduil," you say. "You've treated me so kindly, I don't know how I'll ever---"

"Repayment is not necessary," he interrupts. "You are contributing. And you are a curious puzzle." 

"A puzzle?"

He smirks. "A curious puzzle," he repeats. "You keep many secrets, but share your thoughts on your face without hesitation. You do not fear me. You do not fear my subjects. You ventured into a tainted forest and survived when many morals would have lost their lives---or their minds." He pauses and squeezes your hand. "And, you arrived on a most curious day, you know." 

You frown. "I did? Was it a bad time, or---"

"Years ago, my youngest son left his home and place at my side to go searching for answers," Thranduil says, interrupting again. "My firstborn has been away for hundreds of years. It was his desire to learn how to rule, and I approve as he will be required to maintain these lands if I cannot. But, Legolas... Legolas left because I could not change. Because I could not move beyond my grief and pain. 

"The weight of my crown is heavy, after the difficulties and loss we have faced here. The night before you arrived, I did something I have not done in a very long time." He watches you, but when you say nothing, he continues speaking. "I tried to speak with the Valar. I tried to ask them to relieve me of some of the aches in my heart." 

Understanding very little about these beings from your conversations with Thranduil and some of the scholars, you aren't sure what you should say. After a moment's worth of hesitation, you ask: "Did they respond?" 

"You arrived the next day, under a warm and gentle rain unlike any we had experienced in years," Thranduil says, smiling at you. 

Since he is still holding onto your hand, when he turns to leave he takes you with him. You leave the library and wander past the administrators' rooms and head down a flight of stairs that should take you both to the throne room; on one landing, though, Thranduil detours through a small and dark corridor and you both end up in a quiet room with a low ceiling and tapestries on the walls. A reflection pool is set into the middle of the room, and when you look closely, you can see a soft, uneven ring worn into the stone floor around the pool. Someone paced there, quite often, and judging by the ease that has settled into Thranduil's shoulders, you believe this is a place he spends quite a lot of time. 

"Thranduil?" 

"The entryway to my personal chambers," he explains. "Most days, I cannot stray beyond this room." 

His free hand reached out and brushes against your cheek. You blush but dare to look up into the Elvenking's face. He smiles. You nod. Any attraction you initially felt for him has grown into something more over the year you've been there, something accepting and hungry and _warm_ , and he has respected and honoured you since he surprised you in your bed. A nod is the best answer to the unasked question. 

In the doorway to his most private rooms, you stop and consider what it is you are about to do. He turns to you, brows furrowed, but you smile and gesture towards his crown. 

"Remove your crown," you murmur. "You will always be my king, but in these rooms, with me, you should be Thranduil first." 

"I beg your pardon?"

You smile. "You heard me. Take it off." 

"I could have you sent to the dungeons for speaking to me in this way," he says, a hint of teasing in his voice. 

You grin and move past him, heading further into his inner sanctum. "I'll take my chances." You toy with the lacings on your bodice; you enjoy the way his gaze sharpens as his eyes darken. "Take off your crown and join me. I will still honour and worship you tomorrow." 

"And if I wish you to worship me now?" he inquires, smirking. 

"Then you should take off your crown and robes."

"My robes as well?" he says, closing the door behind him as he approaches. "You ask for much from your king." 

You grin. "My king is a generous elf." 

Amusement dances in his eyes. He makes sure to hold your attention as he lifts his hands to his head, to his crown of branches and berries; slowly, he lifts it from his head, and places it on a low table pressed against the stone wall. His outer robes, more of an ornate cloak than anything else, are next; he shrugs out of them fluidly and drapes them over a chair in the same movement. You reward him by closing the gap between you and putting your hands in his. 

He watches you before leaning in and brushing his nose against yours. "I am suitably unadorned now, I trust," he whispers. 

You seek the first kiss, a gentle press of your lips to his, but he demands the second; he pulls you close and plunders, using lips and then tongue and teeth to send your mind racing and your pulse skittering. When your need for air is a desperate burning in your chest, he scoops you up and carries you across the room to a divan; you bury your face in his hair and breathe deeply until you are deposited on the cushioned surface. 

Looking up at him warms you inside and out. His eyes are a dark and stormy grey; they are focused on you alone as he plucks at the fastenings of his clothes. You try to sit up, to help, but he shakes his head at you. When you try to loosen your bodice, he shakes his head again. 

"Do not deny me my gift," he explains. "I will unwrap you and make you mine, at last, as the Valar intended." 

You shiver. Are you a gift for him, from the Valar? You don't know. It feels right, though, you think, as he presses one knee between your legs and sinks down to kiss you. And after several more kisses, the question no longer warrants pondering; few thoughts beyond "more" and "please, god" flitter through your mind after several long kisses. It doesn't matter if you're a gift from his gods, but you know you will be his as long as he will have you and hold you close.


End file.
